


The Galloping... Scientist?

by gritsinmisery



Series: Red Red Wine [1]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: First Time, Food Sex, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-09
Updated: 2008-09-09
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:17:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gritsinmisery/pseuds/gritsinmisery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Missus has moved out, and Gene's taken a boarder... One who's a cross between Graham Kerr and Mr. Wizard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Galloping... Scientist?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rubies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/56943) by [gritsinmisery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gritsinmisery/pseuds/gritsinmisery). 



> Beta'd by **candesgirl**, who put  up with me whinging and even starting over.

The Galloping… Scientist?

“That’s obscene, that is,” Gene muttered.  In fact, the whole situation had been off from the beginning, sending warning signals to Gene’s finely honed copper instincts.  A candlelight dinner, in your own home?  Yeah, it was damned good Woggy fare, but that didn’t mean the dining room needed to look like a bleedin’ restaurant.  But his Nancy-boy DI had gone over the top again, as usual.  Tablecloth, candles, a bottle of Chianti, a breadbasket…Gene was half-expecting a violin player to pop in from the lounge at any moment.

Of course, that hadn’t stopped him from diving into the meal with gusto.  Now, mellow from the wine and spaghetti with Sam’s homemade Bolognese sauce, Gene had looked over at his deputy-turned-personal-chef to try and decipher, for the umpteenth time, what made the man tick.  Instead, he had been treated to a show: Sam “enjoying” his own cooking. 

And what a show it was.  Gene had yet to see a porno where the actress was as enthusiastic about the proceedings as Sam had been about that mouthful of spaghetti.  To say that Gene’s interest was piqued would have been an understatement, unless by “interest” you meant “todger” and by “piqued” you meant “trying to break out of his trousers without unzipping them first.”  It was not the way Gene was used to spending his dinner hour, but then as it was mentioned before, the whole situation was somehow _off _here.

“Whut is, Guv?”  Sam’s tongue flicked out to catch a bit of sauce at the corner of his mouth as he reached for his wine glass.  He tilted his head back as he drank the last of his wine, stretching out his neck.  His eyes were mere slits, almost closed, the lashes fanning out against his cheeks.  Gene watched that long neck as Tyler swallowed, then hurriedly looked away before Sam brought the glass back down to the table.

To cover his reaction, Gene grabbed the wine bottle, refilled Sam’s glass, topped off his own, and swirled the bottle a bit.  There was still some left in the bottom.  Glancing over at Sam, he also noticed there was just the slightest drop sticking to Sam’s lower lip.  Gene unconsciously licked his own lip as if going after it, and Sam mirrored his movement, catching the drop with the tip of his tongue and causing Gene to swallow hard himself and look away again.  “Just Gene here at the house, I’ve told you that.  Oh -- whut yer doing with that pasta; it’s downright filthy.”

Sam tilted his head slightly and smirked at his boss.  “The great Gene Genie, who drives with a bacon butty clamped between his jaws, who slurps and smacks his way through myriad insults to the Asian community while masticating a mouthful of curry, is reprimanding me for sucking up a small piece of spaghetti in the privacy of my own home?”

“It’s my home I’ll thank you to remember, Tyler; you’re just a lodger.  And it’s not whut yer doing, it’s… _how_.  Yer cheeks are all hollowed in, and yer lips ‘re pursed, and you’ve got yer eyes half-closed and a look on yer face like one of Warren’s girls was bouncing on yer lap.  Then there’s a little plop when the last bit of spaghetti slips in, and a touch of sauce on yer lips.  And it’s all just… obscene.  Lewd, even.”

“Oh.”  Sam blinked a couple of times, and then smiled.  It was an amazing smile, full of wicked intent that sparkled out of his eyes.  “Ohhh, I see,” he said.  And Gene was afraid he did.

Standing and kicking back his chair, Sam stepped over next to Gene.  He pushed at the closest corner of Gene’s chair back, so that the chair, with Gene in it, was turned sideways to the table.  Sliding his own wine glass close to Gene’s place setting, Sam sat down, _straddling Gene’s lap_.  Gene waited as if frozen, neither moving nor protesting the liberties his DI was taking, even though he knew he ought to have responded with a shove that landed Tyler in the floor on his arse.  Instead, he held his breath and stayed perfectly still, afraid to even wonder what was coming next.

“If you think what I do with Bolognese is obscene, _Gene_, you should see what happens with wine,” Sam murmured lowly.  Gene stared at the St. Christopher’s medal at the base of Sam’s neck, unable to look him in the face.  
   
“Tension is an interesting thing,” Sam continued mildly, more in the tone of a lecture, and the hairs on Gene’s arms stood up in agreement.  “Specifically, surface tension.  They start teaching you about it in science class in primary school; giving you an eyedropper and asking you to see how much water you can get to bead up on a coin before the surface tension breaks and the water falls off the coin.”  Gene blinked and looked up at Sam, lost, but Sam was reaching for his wine glass.

“Wine’s a different matter, because it’s a mixture of pure alcohol and water.”  Sam swirled his glass until the wine sheeted up the sides and then started dripping back down, and held it at Gene’s eye-level.  “See that?  They call that ‘tearing’.  It’s a result of that mixture, and it means getting wine to bead up, and stay that way, is a lot trickier than just plain water.”

Sam dipped his middle finger in the wine glass, and held it up enough that the wine dripped off of it back into the glass.  The last drop seemed to hang there forever, and Sam quickly turned his finger over to balance the drop on his fingertip.  Gene stared at the gleaming red bead, mesmerized.  Finally, the drop broke over the sides of Sam’s finger and he stuck it in his mouth to suck it clean, hollowing his cheeks like he had to pull in the last strand of spaghetti.  Gene’s eyes followed the finger and took in the whole show.  “See?” asked Sam after he’d pulled his finger out of his mouth with a wet little ‘pop.’  “Tricky.”

Gene decided right then that if his science classes had been this interesting, he might have done a lot better in school.

Setting his glass back down on the table, Sam continued, “Of course, the most fun part of science is experimenting.”  To Gene’s amazement, Sam pulled the knot further down on Gene’s already-loosened tie, and undid two more of the buttons on his green shirt.  “Can’t have red wine staining this; it’s a bitch to get out and this is my favorite shirt,” Sam muttered.  Gene raised his eyebrows as he looked down at Sam’s nimble fingers.  Sam had a favorite one of Gene’s shirts?

Suddenly Sam was looking at Gene’s face again, and tipping Gene’s head back with one finger under his chin.  Surprised and intrigued enough to let him, Gene found his head resting on his chair back.  He couldn’t see Sam at that angle, so he just gave up and closed his eyes rather than stare at the ceiling.  “Ok, now hold still,” commanded Sam.  “Well, as still as you _can_.”  Gene might not be looking at Sam’s face, but he could still definitely _hear _that Sam was smirking.

Gene felt something wet in the hollow at the base of his throat.  When he furrowed his brows and started to say something, Sam hissed quickly, “Shh.  I said this was tricky.”  Gene could feel the wet spot get a little bit bigger every few seconds, then there was a trickle headed for his breastbone.  Sam muttered, “Damn.”  And then he giggled.

Next thing Gene knew, his DI was lapping up wine off his chest.  Sam’s tongue was warm and a little bit rough, and the feeling of it on his skin made Gene’s cock bounce like a kid in a candy shop.  Gene knew Sam could feel it, sitting right on top of it as he was, and Gene was pretty certain he could feel Sam’s doing the same damn thing against his belly.

“Have to start over now,” Sam said sternly.  Gene felt a wet drop on his left collarbone and obligingly turned his head away to allow Sam better access. The spot grew bigger for a couple of seconds until Sam pronounced, somehow sounding displeased, “Good. Let’s try another.”  He started a second, a little further left.

A light clicked on in Gene’s brain, and he understood the game.  He heaved a sigh, just enough to send the wine rolling.  Sam huffed in mock indignation and proceeded to ‘clean up’ the ‘mess’ as before.  Gene might have groaned then, he wasn’t quite certain.

He let Sam get three drops settled on his right collarbone and a fourth going – apparently _some_one had forgotten that Gene was a damn good copper and could keep perfectly still when necessary, if the discontented little noises Sam made were any indication – before giving a little shudder and sending the Chianti running.  Sam had to work in a hurry then, lapping quickly all along Gene’s shoulder to keep his favorite green shirt from being ruined.  It was all Gene could do to keep from chuckling.  Or moaning.

Gene heard Sam huff again, and tilted his head up off the chair back to see what the problem was.  “It seems I’ve run out of places to experiment,” Sam announced.  Eager to aid his DI in further scientific enquiries, Gene laid his head down again, slowly wiped off his own lower lip with a finger, and then tapped it.   He was rewarded with a drop of wine placed there carefully, then a second and a third.  Gene’s mouth curved into just enough of a smile to send the wine sliding into the crack between his lips.  Sure as closing time and taxes, there came Sam’s tongue to chase it.

Gene surged upright; one hand sliding up from Sam’s hips (_when did I move them there_, Gene wondered) to the back of his head to hold him still while Gene’s tongue plunged into his mouth.  Sam tasted of Bolognese, and wine, and something else indescribable and just… ‘Sam’ that caused Gene to growl a little in the back of his throat.

After the initial fierce invasion, Gene settled down into a lazy exploration of Sam’s mouth, allowing Sam to do the same with his.  Their tongues slid together, traced shapes and lines, tasted.  Heads changed tilt slightly to allow better access.  Sam’s fingers -- originally gripping tight to Gene’s shoulders -- relaxed, slid up to Gene’s neck, and then started running up the back of his head, combing through his hair.  Gene couldn’t quite resist the urge to purr, and Sam rewarded the noise by setting up a slow grinding motion with his hips, bringing both of their cocks together again and again.

When they finally broke apart, both men were breathing hard.  “Christ,” gasped Sam, resting his forehead against Gene’s and closing his eyes. 

Gene huffed in agreement, eyes fixed to Sam’s lips, slightly parted as he sat there panting.  Finally he closed his eyes as well.  “You were right, Sammy, that were completely lewd.  Yer a filthy boy, you are.”

Without opening his eyes, Sam just grinned and replied, “It was just a little scientific experiment.  Science can be fun – there’s tension… and friction…”  Here, Sam slowly ground himself against Gene again. 

Growling, Gene clamped his hands on Sam’s hips to hold him still.  “Mind you don’t get burned during one of yer so-called experiments…”

“…and chemistry,” finished Sam, diving down to lock lips with Gene again.

Gene kept a tight grip on Sam to prevent more of that swivel-hipped action that threatened to having him coming in his trousers like a randy teenager, and twisted his head out of the kiss before his urge to slam his DI to the floor, with himself on top, got the better of him.   Head spinning a bit, Gene laid his cheek against Sam’s chest and listened to the heart thundering inside it.

Gradually Gene recovered his breath and his brain kicked back in.   Standing carefully, he held Sam tightly against his body, letting Sam slide down slowly until his feet were touching the floor and he seemed to be able to stand.  “Samuel Tyler,” Gene announced, “I’m taking you in on a charge of making an obscene display of yerself.  You have the right to remain silent, well, _as silent as you can_.  And bring that wine bottle with you; it’s evidence.”

Sam turned his head slightly to the side and glanced up at Gene from the corners of his eyes.  “You’ll never make it stick, copper.  It were in the name of scientific inquiry,” he drawled, mocking the accent of the crims they heard in the cells every day.

“Get on with ya, lad, before I hafta use me truncheon on ya,” commanded Gene, shoving Sam around the table toward the door with a hand on the back of his neck.  Although Sam’s feet seemed to skid and stumble, his hand very deftly grabbed the wine bottle on the way out.

“Geroff, copper, where’re ya takin’ me?” Sam _faux_-protested.

“Bedroom, Sammy-boy.  Got some experiments of me own devising I want to try.”


End file.
